Yarn
by FroggyFeet
Summary: Nobody really knew how much Oromis had taught the boy on the cliffs.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Heads up, this is a fluffy slash fic. It's not explicit, but it isn't exactly kid friendly either. The major alert is the language. Sometimes, there will be naughty words. Apparently I use expletives in my writing. Alot. So yeah, if you are not a fan of male-male relationships, then unfortunately you might not have a good time. Otherwise, read on and Enjoy! ~~~

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><p>xxx<p>

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><p>Blodhgarm dropped onto the branch like a leaf, the old oak one of many in Du Weldenvarden. The tree hummed underneath his claws, padded feet caked in mud and grass from his run through the forest. His prey tittered below him, wandering through the small group of elves that were meandering through the small glade. The circlet of tree-houses around the edge of the glade glowed in the dark, warm lights from the erisdar framing their doorways.<p>

His prey talked and chattered with the elves in his path; every now and then the fluttery creatures would look up at Blodhgarm. Some would shake their heads and smile, others would laugh, and then some would frown. He didn't care. He kept playing the game. His eyes turned to slits and they locked onto the oblivious prey.

The thin frame disappeared between two houses, and then started running through the brush like a ghost. Blodhgarm followed. The tree branches easily parted for the elf, and he almost ran straight past where the ghost stopped. He easily cleared the entire river, landing like a feather in a pine across from where the phantom had slowed to a trot. From there, his eyes could see it all. The dark hair, slender white throat, lean hands, lithe thighs, the bright eyes. He felt his mouth dry out.

Blodhgarm almost wondered whether he had been spotted, the ghost faltered, but the spectre carried on; stopping by the river. It rolled its shoulder's back, cracking its spine and bending at its hips. Then it lurched forwards, bringing its arms behind its back and bending over to press its face against its knees. Then it stood, and with an easy movement unbuckled its belt. Blodhgarm shuffled closer on the branch, sitting back to press his back against the trunk.

The ghost pulled off each boot, pressing his toes into the river sand. Blodhgarm could even hear the boy's sigh, petering off into a tiny groan. Then he pulled his tunic up, the elfin fabric coming away easily. The boy's pale stomach was revealed, his narrow hips, and the sharp v shape that framed the dark line of a happy trail; stark and inviting against the vivid contrast of his delicious belly. The supple creamy skin carried on up, and Blodhgarm felt his breath hitch as Eragon's breeches slipped down a little from the movement.

Blodhgarm found himself leaning far forwards, even far enough that he had to brace himself on the branch, and tuck his head down to stop it from being visible through the branches. The tunic slipped over Eragon's ribs, up further to reveal dusky nipples and over his head. The movement had obviously caught his face; his nose and mouth were slightly redder from the friction. Then he did something that Blodhgarm hadn't seen an elf do. Not even when they were perceivably alone. He smiled, closed his eyes and roughly rubbed his hands through his hair. He threw his head back and moaned at the relaxing feeling, and took a few mores steps into the river, especially sure to push his toes into the river bed. He stretched again, arching his back deliciously before letting his arms fall.

Then he did something that really surprised Blodhgarm. He threw himself backwards onto the sand, arms spread. He pushed his head into the sand, arching his throat, rolling his shoulders up and eventually slumping into a relaxed position. One of his legs came up, bent at the knee, and the other stretched lazily, the river water soothing his toes.

Blodhgarm made his move when Eragon's fingers stopped twitching.

He slipped, silently down the tree trunk, eyes perpetually on Eragon's lounging form. The boy never moved. Blodhgarm settled onto his haunches at the base of the tree, arms spread around the trunk on either side, back pressed to the comforting bark. He leisurely moved forwards onto his hands, keeping low and deftly crawling forwards. He was on his hands and feet, legs and arms bent so they were parallel to the ground, coiled like a wildcat ready to pounce.

He padded delicately into the water, fully aware that if he jumped across the river again, the noise would alert his quarry. Then the boy would freak and run, and the plan would fail. That was not something that Blodhgarm was willing to risk, so swamp slogging it was. Well, the river was beautiful, but the elf had acquired more than just fur with his wildcat pelt. He had also gained abhorrence for water. Similarly, the fur had granted him an infuriating stench that attracted women to him. Irony in its finest form. Women attracted to a gay elf. He snickered, and the water bubbled around his nose. Eragon twitched, but didn't wake up.

Blodhgarm was already on the other bank, thumb by the tip of Eragon's big toe. Another animalistic urge, he snapped his teeth and opened his maw. The growling purr that shuddered out of his chest had a strange effect on the sleeping human; the boy hummed back and tucked an arm behind his head. He rolled his hips up, and his other leg came up to bend at the knee, almost tucking his legs against his chest. Then he settled, and the legs hung rather limply and settled on the beach again.

Blodhgarm moved again. He crawled up the human's body, padded hands careful to not touch, trying to keep his breathing low. It was hard when the inside of one of Eragon's knees brushed his flank. Lots of strange thoughts flooded the elf's mind, clouding it for an instant. Then he felt the heat build under his fur. He settled when his hands were on either side of Eragon's head, the boy's arm had slipped from underneath him and spread over the sand again.

Then, ever so slowly, he eased himself lower, settling so he was propped up on his elbows, framing Eragon's head while a knee was buried deep in the sand on either side of the boy's thighs. When he woke up from his sleep, Aiedail was already gone and the sun was heating his back. Blodhgarm purred, low in his chest and snuggled back into the warmth underneath him. He almost wouldn't have caught the quiet "ahem."

He glanced up, and Eragon was mildly amused, to be quite fair.

Blodhgarm leapt up onto his feet, almost awake enough to get away. but Eragon was more coherent, he managed to get a fist clamped around Blodhgarm's wrist. "Wait, don't be embarrassed! It's a part of the whole animal nature thing, right?"

Blodhgarm shrugged, "I have a tendency to act on my animal instincts more, yes. But it is no excuse."

Eragon shrugged, "You took a nap on me. No harm done."

Blodhgarm shifted on his feet.

"Come, want to get some breakfast?"

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><p>Blodhgarm didn't know when it started.<p>

He had spent centuries rolling into and out of beds, and only recently had found himself in a bit of a lull. Not because of dysfunction, or because of lack of interest, but simply because there's only so many birds you can shag before you get mighty bored. You can only lick the same ice cream so many times before you decide you need a new favourite. Still, no matter how he tried to rationalise the new type of hunger that roiled in his maw, it was still mightily strange to want another man.

He hadn't the slightest idea when it started.

He would watch. The tiniest things he filed away into little folders in his kitty brain, keeping the information safe and sound. Like he did with women, he would watch first, then court, and show them how much he liked them by noticing the small things. They would build it up, and then he would take what he wanted and leave. Another reason why he had a rather luscious fur pelt; it was a magnificent disguise. The women had no clue he was that dashing young ass that had left them high and dry three decades ago. Well. He would sometimes try pretty hard, do the whole fairytale prince shtick. Stick around, play the whole thing out, and then leave. But now? That fur that saved him from being neutered was his downfall. His own fault, he supposed.

Maybe it was a sign.

Now he found women boring, because he had turned pulling into an art form. It became easy, especially with his aroma. There wasn't even a spell to counter it. He tried, and failed every time. Maybe it was meant to be, his revoking of the fairer sex. Men looked at him twice because it's hard to miss a huge blue cat-man, not because of his pulling power. They looked at him for artillery expertise if a Varden warrior, looked to him for magical lecturing if a member of Du Vrangr Gata. They looked to him on how to skin a mountain lion or which tree wouldn't gut them if they tried to chop it down. They didn't look to him for a roll in the sheets.

They were a challenge, a conquest for him.

He smirked, and Eragon noticed the movement. The elf shook his head and waved Eragon's attention away, the boy shrugging and returning to his whittling. He was quite the artist, and would create an entire menagerie of animals and people, only the Blood Oath Celebration was able to enhance the boy's gift more. If he still lived in his little village, he may have grown old like Brom and told stories, made wooden toys for children and drank tea on hillocks. Right then, he was sitting in an Elvin wood with a pick-n-mix elf carving little people from sticks. But who it could have been that he was carving was a mystery. The boy hadn't cut in a face yet.

Eragon was a challenge. He was the forbidden fruit. The prince in the tower already betrothed to a princess in a kingdom away. It was almost borderline insane for Blodhgarm to nurse an attraction to him, not only because of the age difference, but because of the whole destiny garbage. It would be like a tragic romance, the boy would run off and get mauled by Galbatorix, and Blodhgarm would run in after him and go out in a blaze of glory. It would be a sad-sack of a story.

That and Arya would castrate him for touching the Rider.

Still, no matter how he thought about it or tried to stop himself, he was still sitting on a rotting log in the middle of nowhere eating breakfast at night. They had been wandering the whole day, talking, chattering about nothing, but neither seemed to find a reason to leave. So here they were, eating berries in the twilight.

Then the smell came.

Blodhgarm stiffened. His hackles froze in place, and the only movement was the barest brush of the wind against his fur. The smell was faint, but still discernable amongst the pinecones and moss of the forest. It was sharp, musky like old whiskey, and had a hint of mountainous snow about it. It filled his mouth, his nose, his throat. It even completely filled up his lungs with its freshness. Then he gulped.

"What's wrong my friend?"

Blodhgarm shook the scent from his face and held his breath adamantly, looking over to Eragon. The boy had stopped whittling. He was sat on a log opposite Blodhgarm, elbow propped on his knee and knife dangling from his fingers. He had a curious frown across his features, but the rest was lost as the wind blew again. The scent filled Blodhgarm's throat and chest, and then the world blurred.

His mouth found the boy's with ease, and the clawed hands encircled the pale white wrists that were almost completely hidden by the hems of the bright green elfin tunic. The growl filled Blodhgarm's throat, the sound met by a breathy gasp as the two met in a needy open mouthed kiss. Absently, Eragon felt the knife slip free of his fingers, but Blodhgarm had let his hands go and roughly tore his padded hands through his hair and across his pointy ears, making the boy whine and throw both arms around the elf's waist. The hands slid, unused to the soft fur of the wildcat's belly, a texture that made Eragon groan when he ran his hands upwards and under a light undershirt.

Eragon pushed up, pressing his tender belly against Blodhgarm's fur, the wildcat long since tearing the front of his tunic to shreds. But exactly when Blodhgarm had pushed him to floor, he didn't know. But the heavy weight that pressed down against his chest, between his legs, across his mouth, it kept him happy enough to let the minor details slide. Blodhgarm finished their kiss by tentatively biting Eragon's lower lip, before he leant back, propping himself on his elbows, staring down at Eragon with eyes that were almost pinpricks in his mauve eyes, and then the world lost all coherency as the elf rolled his hips into Eragon's centre.

Blodhgarm sank his fangs into Eragon's throat, and the boy bucked. The claws on his hands slid down his arched back, making Eragon push his head back into the soft mossy ground, baring his throat as Blodhgarm slipped lower to lick down the boy's sternum. "Let me take care of this, _Drottningu_." The cat looked up, fangs sparkling, as he slid a hand between Eragon's thighs. The boy smirked, and Blodhgarm felt his stomach coil into the familiar form of arousal. He expected a blushing virgin, not to be squared up to by the young rider.

"It would be most selfish of me to take instead of give, _Konungr_."

Eragon threw his arm up, and Blodhgarm yowled as the boy coiled his legs around the elf's waist and threw his weight into rolling them over, switching positions and stopping to look down smugly at Blodhgarm's bewildered gaze as Eragon knelt between his spread legs. Eragon's face brightened. Plan successful.

"Blodhgarm, are you really okay?"

The elf shivered, and his sight returned. He was still sitting on that damned log, and Eragon was still sitting next to him whittling away at that stupid wooden carving. They hadn't had steamy make-outs on the mossy forest floor, and they weren't following it up with steamy forest sex. The cat sagged, but he gave Eragon no answer. He was just too disappointed.

The scent wafted past again, and he felt himself growl.

"Yes, Shadeslayer. I am terrific."

His hung face completely missed the grin that slit the boy's face. Eragon had always loved playing with cats.


	2. Chapter 2

Eragon wasn't a complete sack of spuds.

Yes, it to a little hard to match up to elves and dwarves, both incredibly advanced civilisations with centuries more history than mankind. But when it came down to it, he liked to think that their age made them overlook the little things. Yes, he decided that Arya would indeed stare at a rock for a good five hours, trying to tell him it had a soul. Yes, Oromis would collect bugs and things, and it was very amusing to see the dainty elf with his ass in the air and his face pressed to the mud to see a worm better. But when it came down to it, they never noticed that he wasn't like the bugs, and he wasn't like the rocks.

The expected a lot out of him, but they never expected brains.

So when he did something smart, it was like watching the owners in Crufts giving their dogs a super duper well done. He felt much like a tiny child next to a wise old monk that had lived his life in a different village every year, had seventeen thousand invites to celebrations all over Alagesia. Was welcome in every culture because of his knowledge, known for his wisdom. It didn't mean that he wouldn't get covered in dragon dung and have a new bucket-helmet when he opens the door.

When it came down to the raw deal, they all thought he was a sack of potatoes. A very important sack of potatoes that might crush the King to death under their rootyness, but a simple bunch of vegetables none the less. He would have felt ashamed that such highly regarded beings thought he was thick, but instead, he felt pretty damn awesome about it. Why?

Because he got away with murder.

They didn't think he was smart enough to copy Blodhgarm's "husky woodland scent" magic, and then re-attach the charm to an especially old and withering Elf. They didn't think to ask him why all the young lovely elf women were ravenous for a wrinkly old man. After about a month and the old fellow looked like he was about to keel over with the stress of running and hiding so much, Eragon did release the charm.

Still, Eragon rather liked being in the Elves company.

He liked the way that Oromis would talk to him, nurturing. Like an old gardener with a prized orchid. Eragon snorted. Maybe a farmer with his annual barley field. Eragon was no dainty little flower. If anything, he was a mudskipper. A clodhopper. Pitting him against an elf would be like sticking a temple dancer next to an old fisherman's wife. The woman might make a mean hotpot, but it didn't make her delicate lace finery.

It was this exact reason why he was sat on the sidelines, safely at one of the tables that circled the 'dance floor.' This 'dance floor' wasn't fancy; it was simply a dusty circle that wasn't damp with moss. The elves made it into an artwork. The musicians and singers were sat opposite Eragon, but he could hardly see them. The dancers blurred across his vision, even enhanced as it was by the Blood Oath Celebration. They moved like wraiths, dresses and tunics shuddering with their erratic surges and powerful strides. A few times, the music would stop, the elves would stop, for an instant, and lean in on their tippy toes towards a seemingly random partner, before they giggled in their flippant way and skittered to another movement in the dance as the music picked up again.

It was the only moment that the passion of the dancers was lost to anything else.

The moments were spaced evenly across the song, and whenever they happened, Eragon lost his breath. Because it was only an instant, like the quiet before the storm. Before the elves would squeak and chime and roll back into a sudden rush of bobbing, weaving, gliding and leaping. It wasn't like the predictable push and pull of the ocean; it was like watching a thunderous swarm of exotic birds. Colourful and plumed, ruffled and crested.

Then the song ended, and another began.

For every song, the swarm moved differently. This time, it was led by a sharp and playful viola. The elves moved, and Eragon felt his eyes fix on a blue blur this time. The elf moved with a grace that seemed to outshine the bright creatures around her, but unfortunately, that much anticipated stop never came. The dance was unending, and Eragon felt his lungs begin to start hammering on the inside of his chest. As if they were screaming at him for air like petulant children. At a particularly sharp twist of the wooden string instrument, the elves all swept in a mesmerizing whirling cloud, before the violist drove them to an almost erratically powerful set of forms. Eragon couldn't describe the elves as erratic, they were too controlled. Even in joy.

When the viola took pity on the elves and slowed, Eragon was disappointed that the blue-frocked beauty had slipped behind a huge group, and the boy-rider couldn't see a face, or even the hem of her dress. As the elves slowed to a stop, the creatures hadn't even broken a sweat after a feat that would have pressed even the most accomplished human dancers. They dissipated, and Eragon knew that he had been set up.

Blodhgarm stretched languidly, almost sinfully.

His eagle-eyes swept across, and almost lazily landed on Eragon. The elf grinned and made a big show of wiping his chin. Eragon growled and looked away. Damn pixie. When a padded hand met his shoulder, he dared to glare upwards into a feline face. "Shadeslayer, why so sad? We are meant to be celebrating!" The words were concerned, like an old mother hen talking to a chick. In reality, Blodhgarm's face was split from ear to ear in a grin. He dropped down, one hand still on Eragon's shoulder and the other propping him up using the chair's wooden arm.

"I know what you did. And _Drottingu_, it was very cute, but I have many more tricks than simple perfume spells." He was still grinning as he went to lean away, but Eragon fisted a hand in his blue mane, and he was forced to stay half leant over the boy. To his mild surprise, Eragon was grinning back.

"You underestimate me a great deal, _Konnungr_."

The way that the cat's face exploded into a purple blush, the hackles rose and he let out a screech that stopped most of the elven congregation in their tracks to stare, Eragon fell off his chair laughing.

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><p>"Eragon."<p>

"Yes, Arya-svitkona."

"Stop whatever game you are playing with Blodhgarm."

"What?"

The woman stared at him, eyes dark in the shadows of the tent. She almost looked like she was plucked off a temple wall, a painted beauty with a full mouth, doe-eyes and dark hair. "Stop it now."

"I'm sure I don't know what you-"

"Don't lie to me, Eragon. I know what happened in the forest. How you managed to implant that dream sequence was beyond me, I never knew you and Oromis had gotten that far in your training, but stop it. Now."

"Why?"

"Because our great king started off small, too."

She walked away, and Eragon was left with a foul taste in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

The last few days were despicable.

They were returning to the Varden. The six spell weavers that had stayed behind to hold the fort were growing restless, and it was understandable, considering they needed to push forwards. The Varden supplies were dwindling, and Uru'Baen was hovering on the horizon. Eragon was being selfish, he supposed. He had been spoiled in his stay with the elves. They had granted him something that he hadn't had since he first found the egg in the spine. Peace.

He didn't regret a moment of the chaos that followed, nor did he regret finding her, but still. It would have been nice to stay a country bumpkin, him and Saphira going fishing in the Anora river. Maybe they would have made the journey to the lake it sourced from.

Blodhgarm had figured out what he did, and funnily didn't have such a dark disposition as Arya did about the whole affair. Eragon would have pointed and laughed in her face, but that wasn't what one did to a princess. Let alone a romantic interest. Besides, Eragon was an adult. Blodhgarm found it absolutely refreshing; a smart human. Eragon smirked at the memory of the elf wandering into the doorway of Eragon's room, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. Eragon supposed it was to assert some kind of masculinity or racial superiority, but hell. Eragon had already made the straighter-than-straight cat-man have a sexually orientated epiphany. There wasn't much that would have saved face, after that.

The way the elf had even admitted he didn't expect to get duped by a human, and well, he wouldn't underestimate Eragon again.

Eragon had laughed, and said that he was looking forward to retaliation. They had shared a grin, and the elf had left. And for once, Eragon didn't feel like that old sack of spuds. For a wild second, he almost regretted proving his worth. If they thought he wasn't as dumb as they thought, they'd want more from him. He would have to work hard, and end up living in splendour for his efforts. Well, regardless of his efforts they would try and house him in a castle. He frowned at the sour taste in his mouth.

He was a farmer's son. Rider or not. They weren't going to make an eloquent noble out of him. The elves didn't ask, nor did they seem to mind the way he slurped his Potatoe-leek soup like an animal that night. They just passed it off as a human thing.

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><p>Blodhgarm didn't scream it from the rooftops; he didn't even act any differently. Well. Not when Arya or the others were in earshot. When the sun set on their meagre camp, and the elves began their ritualistic gathering of the fruits white Saphira hunted, but Eragon stayed at the camp. Blodhgarm returned first. "I never thought you were so sensitive, Rider."<p>

Eragon looked up to him, eyebrows quirked.

"Vanir really did get under your skin," the elf elaborated, weaving around the piles of pine needles that buffeted the ground. "You really don't think you can do this." The two stared at each other in a heavy silence. Eragon broke it.

"I'm not an elf. I wasn't born training and working magic. Two years ago, I'd be ploughing the soil, getting ready for next year's harvest. I wouldn't be on a quest through an ancient wood to join an army about to murder the King." Eragon frowned. "It would have been much better if she had chosen an elf. What could she have possibly seen in-"

Eragon hit the dirt hard, cloak bunching up under him but gathering around his throat to smother him, legs akimbo and something heavy across his stomach. Blodhgarm fisted his big blue paws in Eragon's tunic, eyes like golden lights in his head. "Don't even bother, kid."

Eragon smirked, "I shouldn't have."

The first punch hurt, but the second didn't.

Blodhgarm was frowning, deeply. It marred his entire face, eyebrows thundering down across his eagle-eyes like snakes. "Where do you get off being so depressing? You were a farm boy. _Now _you are a warrior. Growing every day. You need to step up, just like we all have had to step up. I was meant to spend the winter with my cousin, Liotha. She's due to have her baby in the spring. Instead, I'm wandering the countryside with a human horde, trying to sort out the mess of men that walked the earth when I was a child."

"You don't get it."

"Then enlighten me, O Rider."

"If this is all destiny, and I'm just a puppet of fate, then Saphira is too. She never chose me. Not really. She was always going to pick me. Regardless of the 'me' I was. I could have been anybody. Any old farm boy. If I had been older, and Roran the younger, it would have been him. He would have been the hunter, and he would have brought her home. She would have hatched for him, and it would have all been different."

"We would have never met. I wouldn't have grown into Stronghammer. I would have been eaten alive by the Ra'zac when they came back to interrogate the villagers. I wouldn't have led them here, I wouldn't have gotten them on the boat, and we wouldn't have come to save the Varden from Thorn and the Empire."

Eragon smiled, bitterly, "everything I have is what I have been given. I was given this blade, this dragon, and these elves. Even these powers. They are hers. I have everyone's hopes pinned on me, and nobody has realised it yet." Eragon leant upwards then, eyes dark little gems in his face.

"I'm just a fake."

Blodhgarm's eyes widened. Eragon smiled crookedly, "I'm just another stereotype. The backwater village hick who found something amazing. People give him a sword and a shield and tell him he's a hero. He falls in love, and kills the king, and they all live happily ever after. Vanir was _right_. I'm not the fairytale type, Blodhgarm. It won't end happily, and _nobody gets it_. It should have been an elf; it should have been someone better. Because if it was fate who set this all up, then he has one cracking sense of humour. Because he set us all up for a miraculous failure. I can't do this. You can dress up a rock in all the wealth of the world," Eragon's smile faltered, "But it is still a rock."

Blodhgarm's eyes darkened. "You are a real dumb shit, you know that?"

Eragon smiled.

"She didn't pick you for anything like destiny, or fate, or whatever. She picked you because she knew. She could see what we all can see; an honest little boy who wants to save. You try to save everyone, and not just the collective. You try and save each individual. Look at Elva. You did that out of good intentions, and only your ignorance let you down. That's what we are trying to do; give you the knowledge to do what you do best," Blodhgarm leant back on his haunches, eyes soft. "We are giving you the ability to cleanse. You will atone for all of our past mistakes with one sweep of a blade. The lives you touch will be happier afterwards, just look at the Varden. You swept them from their mountain and into an assault on the Empire after decades of hiding."

Blodhgarm gave him a toothy grin, "no magical force did that, Eragon. You did. Rider or not."

Eragon smirked, "The three ton lizard helped things along."

"I'm sure."

The elf rolled to his feet, and extended a hand to Eragon.

"I never knew you could be so serious, Blodhgarm."

"I never knew you could throw such a pity-party."

"Surprise!"

"All you needed was the Faelnirv and the women and you'd have aced it."

* * *

><p>The walking in the day was boring.<p>

Well. The elves ran, and Eragon flew. But since it went much slower than normal, Saphira had to hold back; her monotonous slowness was enough to make Eragon fall asleep in her saddle. Waking up was unpleasant.

Saphira landed like a rock, none of her usual grace in such a tired state. It was the exhaustion of someone doing a long repetitive task, not of true exertion. She simply shook Eragon from her shoulders, gnawed off the saddle, rolled on her back and promptly fell asleep amongst the broken and bent saplings that she had landed on. Eragon landed on his ass.

One of the elves, Yaela he thought, helped him up.

The blonde gave him a swift smile, before she flitted away. One of the raven haired males followed her, and Eragon named him as Uthinare. He looked to Arya, and she simply replied, "Border patrol." She moved around the small clearing, plucked a small black slab from her pack, plopped to the ground and promptly started to set up camp. Two of the others, Wyrden and Laufin, swept around the small woodland, picking dried twigs and branches. They dumped their findings on the slab, and the small fire lit up. The other seven elves had pushed and pulled a few logs that littered the area around the fire's warmth, but only two sat down. Five of them skittered away, up into the trees. Eragon didn't ask. He slumped onto one of the logs, Arya on the one opposite, and Blodhgarm sat cross legged beside Arya's knees.

"So," one of the other guards sat at Eragon's left, "I heard that you like to carve sculptures?"

Eragon looked to him, and absently he remembered this one to be called Wyrden. He shrugged, and with a gentle movement, drove a hand into Saphira's saddlebags. He drew out a tiny wooden animal, and passed it to the elf. Wyrden rolled the tiny thing over in his hands, and simply smiled. "It is well done, Rider."

"Please, Eragon."

The guard shrugged, "Eragon-finariel."

The human rolled his eyes. The elf cracked a grin. Then he turned his gaze back to the wooden doe in his palm, and continued to roll it over in his hands. Eragon glanced at Arya. "Do you still have that fairth?"

She smiled, nodded.

He smiled back.

"I still have the little sculpture of Blagden, too."

* * *

><p>By the time their little group had made it to the Varden encampment, Eragon had made each of his elf companions a little sculpture. The elves might have found it a rather amusing show of affection, but they accepted the gifts none the less. He didn't ask why <em>this<em> distraction was **allowed**, however.

He knew he was being a bitter child, but he didn't care.

Nasuada greeted them, hard wooden eyes melting into chocolate. "Eragon!" the arms were just as warm, and the elves seemed to shy away from the hugging humans. It seemed such public displays were much more hidden in the forest. Eragon didn't know why. Elves always seemed much more passionate than people. Then again, he decided, it would be hugely wrong to see a couple of elves rutting in a forest.

Nasuada's eyebrows rose at the snort, but he waved her away.

_That_ wasn't something that he wanted to explain.

Nasuada then turned to the Elves, and curtsied elegantly. The elves twisted their arms back. The Varden's Leader smiled wryly and followed with their age-old joke. "I will get your battalion set up, Master Blodhgarm."

The wolf-elf grinned, and bowed.

"_Wiol omnuria ilian."_

Nasuada nodded, and surprising the elves, replied, _"Wiol ono."_

Blodhgarm grinned wider, "Are all humans so refreshing?"

"No," Arya smiled, "Nasuada's just something special."

* * *

><p>Eragon threw his sword onto the cot, ignoring Saphira pressing against his consciousness. He felt her irritation peak, and when she head butted him hard enough to almost send him careering into one of the tent's poles, he growled. Her roar would have made him shiver if her were a commoner, but instead he found himself grimacing.<p>

She softened, and with a gentle movement caught his belt between her teeth and hefted him up, albeit slightly awkwardly and plopped him on the cot with his sword. When she pressed against his mind again, he let the feeling engulf him. Her head tilted, and then she shook it violently.

_Little one. _

He smiled at her, feeling littler than he usually felt next to his Saphira. He felt like a child whose mother was giggling at him. As if he was sat making mud cakes in the garden again. The gigantic angular head rolled over, and with a tap had him on his back, rubbing a scaled skull across his chest much like a dog would. In affection. His hands clasped around her face, and her low clicking and purring was enough to dull his irritation. It was enough to make him smile.

When she awkwardly ripped the covers from under him, he would giggle. When she threw the rough spun Varden blanket over his head, he would laugh. And when she bid him goodnight, and to "stop being such a chickenshit," he had to wipe the tears away.

_I am going to hunt, Little one. Do not,_ she narrowed her huge blue eye, _I will repeat, __**do not**__ do anything stupid. _

Her head retracted, and Eragon felt his face split into a grin.

"Don't do anything stupid, she says."

The rider shrugged, and still grinning, stood and turned to face the tiny mirror and 'sink' that were balancing precariously on one of the crates the Varden had given him. He sighed, and tugged off the deep blue tunic, throwing it at his feet. He lightly touched the silvery necklace at his throat, according to his nightly ritual, and looked to the mirror. He almost laughed. He looked like a fairy. Pointy ears, short hair, smooth cheeks. He resorted to a quiet giggle. He was nowhere near an elf's pristine and almost ethereal beauty, and he still had his human jaw, his human eyes and his human mouth. He just looked polished, like when jewellery got cleaned and had new stones set into its surface.

Dragon magic didn't stop him getting stubble, though.

He roughly ran a hand over the tiny brown hairs, and absently muttered the words to fill the bowl with water. He would refrain from calling the tiny thing a sink. He really had been spoilt by the dwarves and their cavernous bathing suites and their hot steam rooms. Eragon hummed at the memory. He slid the tiny dagger from its home beside the bowl, and his other hand found the lathering soap and the brush.

He only closed his eyes for a second.

The hands were gloved, and they were warm. One slid easily around the hand with the knife, and the other covered Eragon's eyes firmly. It had to have been a man, because a strong chest pressed against his back, and the husky woodland cologne he always wore pervaded Eragon's senses like a tiny army. "I hope I don't count as 'anything stupid'."

Eragon laughed, but it came out in a breathy way.

He would have kicked himself, but a mouth pressed against the nape of his neck. It sucked on the bone at the base of his neck, before it lathered a line of saliva to Eragon's jaw. The head twisted to allow a better angle, and a pointed fang traced across his earlobe. Eragon threw his head back, across the elf's shoulder, pointedly ignoring how much of a girl he was being, and simply let his control slip away.

The leathery gloves were warm, and since both the one across his eyes and the one holding his wrist were gone, Eragon's hands had both slid backwards, over his own shoulders to tangle in a long mane, forcing the hot mouth to have more contact with his skin. A smile pressed to his throat. In that instant, the hands seemed to un-glove each other, because beautifully warm hands pressed to his belly, and the searing mouth pressed to his temple. Curved claws raked down his sides, one upwards and the other down. One pressed against his throat, and the other against his hip. When a clawed finger teased the edge of his mouth, he growled.

With an easy movement he drove an elbow into the elf's side, slid around, and pushed him back. Blodhgarm fell on Eragon's bed with a grunt, eyes like tiny golden stars in the night. Eragon almost snorted at the poeticism. Blodhgarm smirked, and propped himself up on his elbows, knees hung over the edge. He looked quite at home amongst the sheets. "What ever became of 'not dipping your quill in company ink'?"

The elf smirked, "I have to protect you. I see you every day. It's natural to grow some kind of feelings."

"Hmm."

Blodhgarm laughed, "You make it sound as if I have cornered a poor peasant girl with the intent to steal her virtue. You forget; if you didn't want me here I'd be gone already." Eragon shrugged, he guessed so. Blodhgarm's eyes twitched, and for a couple of seconds, Eragon could see the cogs turning. He almost felt guilty at Blodhgarm's distress. Did he get it wrong? Did the Rider not want him here? Then, the elf sighed and attempted to stand, but Eragon slunk forwards, smile plastered across his face. Blodhgarm visibly relaxed.

"As if a kitten like you could scare anybody."

"I bet I could make you scream easily enough."

Eragon laughed, and his feet met the edge of the bed. He knelt, and for the first time, Blodhgarm saw the twitch. It was tiny, and if it was daytime, it would have stood out on the rider's face like bright green paint. Hesitation. Apprehension. It was around then that his brain calculated, formulated, and realised how young the rider actually was. He was barely a man in human years, and had been on the run since before that. He probably hadn't had a run-in with the opposite sex yet, let alone the same sex.

Gently, like a jaguar.

Blodhgarm watched as Eragon knelt, a knee on either side of Blodhgarm's legs, learning forwards on his hands, propped up with one on each side of Blodhgarm's chest, hips barely brushing the elf's, eyes deep and determined. Blodhgarm moved slowly, as if he was stalking a buck in the middle of the forest. A hand rested on the rider's chest, and he felt the hummingbird-heartbeat, the fledgling blush that spread across the boy's face, and also the mild irritation that mingled with the dusted pink.

The hand slid up, and cupped a round pink cheek, palm angled to slightly rest under the edge of Eragon's jaw. Like that, he could pull Eragon closer; feel the boy's breath grow tighter, faster, hotter. It was as if someone had suddenly lit a bonfire, the simple action. He guessed it was because of reciprocation, because of teenage hormones and the like. He had heard about _them_. Arya had said that the human children went crazy sometimes, but mostly the girls. The horror stories were almost enough for Blodhgarm to refuse his job as 'guardian' and 'spell caster' for one of the infamous human young, but he didn't.

And as he felt that supple, warm mouth shudder out a breath and press against his own fanged maw, well. He could hardly complain about anything. Not even the scratchy, itchy blanket. It almost felt feathery underneath him. And as Eragon grew bolder, _Vanir was right, he was a fast learner_, Blodhgarm felt something light up like it used to. It had been years, even for an elf, and finally. The little spark of a dying fire lit up again. He thought he had stamped it out. One would have thought so, after all the bed-hopping he had done.

Squash that sentimentality out, quick.

In their day and age, their current war-torn climate, it was dangerous to care about anything. Things were there one day, gone the next. But as two thighs framed his hips, two warm hands slid into his hair, around his ears, curled into the wild blue mass, he decided he didn't give a fuck. Let him have a look in his big bag of bothered, he would have anything for you. Nothing at all.

He muffled a groan against the Rider's collarbone as the boy experimentally ground down, and adorably gasped as something pressed hard against his ass. Naiveté, it was a drug. Blodhgarm smiled, and roughly pulled Eragon's gaping mouth back down to crush against his own. The tiny sigh against his teeth as the elf pressed a pleasant spot in his mouth, the whine as fangs teased a sensitive spot behind his ear, a yelp as the claws raked an ass-cheek. All of the tiny sounds were addictive to the elf, each catalogued and labelled accordingly. This movement emits this sound.

He ground his hips up, and Eragon gasped and pushed down against him.

Blodhgarm flipped them almost instantly, relishing in the tiny squeak the rider let out. For a warrior that had seen at good few battles, the sound was alien. But Eragon was split in two. The face he allowed to see fights, blood, war. The other face was one he saved for the people. The happy, young boy face, one that his friends, comrades, the Varden men, they all loved him for.

The face that showed warmth, allowed itself faults, allowed itself some stupid little habits. This face allowed him to sit and eat rock cakes with the Varden children, allowed him to walk amongst the citizens as if he had never killed a fly. The other face was a lot darker, but it was the same boy. Just harder. It would kill; it wouldn't shy away from a fight. It held firm, made him strong. It wasn't like his brother's face, not at all. When Blodhgarm first saw the other Rider, he didn't believe the relation. When Eragon admitted to being the Half-brother of the traitor, well. Blodhgarm didn't know what to say.

The boy under him growled, and suddenly had a fist in Blodhgarm's hair, and had tugged him down into a clash of teeth and a lithe grind of hips. Another arm flung across the elf's shoulders, and tugged at the elven fabric of Blodhgarm's tunic. He had worn so many clothes to surprise the boy. If he had come in his usual loincloth, then he would be found out in an instant. Gotta make them sweat, first.

The tunic tore under the boy's hands. Blodhgarm grinned against Eragon's cheek and with a quick swipe, had both of the boy's hands in each of his, and had pinned them on either side of his face on the bed. When his tongue traced a miniscule, teasing line along the Rider's jugular, he thought the young man might explode. He growled, lowly into the boy's ear, grinding down slowly against the prize between Eragon's breeched thighs, awarded with a strangled groan. He bit down hard on the base of his throat, the sweet spot between the shoulder and neck, and Eragon arched up against him.

He licked the tiny teeth marks sweetly, before he placed a chaste kiss at the hollow of the boy's throat. He sighed, but when a fanged mouth pressed against the base of his sternum, he felt the heat that had built begin to churn. Like lava, almost unbearable heat that pressed against his insides. Eragon cracked open an eye, and watched as Blodhgarm slid further down, slowly, like a wildcat on the hunt.

He swallowed, _hard_.

A pink tongue darted from the dusty-roseate mouth, wetting it slightly before dipping low, into his bellybutton. Eragon gasped and his hips bucked, loud and embarrassing. The tongue quirked with a pleased smirk, and gently traced its fiery lines around the edge of his naval, Blodhgarm's eagle-eyes glancing up. And in a moment of complete and utter audacity and arrogance, _winked at him_. The hands that held Eragon's let go, and with a gentle slide were making their way towards Eragon's hips, sensually clawing light pink lines across the rider's chest in their wake.

When the two blue paws finally made it down past his burning stomach, the thumbs teased the hem of Eragon's breeches like criminals. He felt the low growl in the base of his throat, and the similar irritation grew when Blodhgarm was stood behind him, teasing him with the light bites and gentle caresses. The cat-man smiled, bright in the moonlight. "Patience is a virtue."

"A lecture instead of sweet nothings? I thought you said you were a ladies man?"

Blodhgarm grinned, and with a sudden movement began to crawl back up Eragon. The rider frowned. "I didn't mean it. Stay there. Carry on. Forget I said anyth-" Blodhgarm pressed his mouth to the boy's, propping himself up on his elbows, one on either side of Eragon's head. The boy's hands had risen from his sides to fist in the elf's shirt, and as Blodhgarm pulled back, he felt a frown on his face. The elf smiled.

"Shut up and sleep. We are to storm Belatona at dawn."

He leapt to his feet, and Eragon was left bewildered on the bed. "What the hell was that?"

The elf only paused at the opening of the tent to look over his shoulder and grin. "You aren't the only one who plays games, Shadeslayer."

"So you just came to mess with my head and leave?"

"That's about it, yeah."

The elf gave him one last grin before he disappeared into the night.

He almost cackled when the Rider's irritated shout pierced the night-time peace.

Blodhgarm decided he liked these… hormones? Yes. He liked them very much.

* * *

><p>For my happiness - Wiol omnuria ilian<p>

For you - Wiol ono


	4. Chapter 4

Getting up was easy. He didn't sleep. Eragon sat up, and pulled on his armour with an ease that he wished he hadn't gotten. He wished he was back in Palancar Valley, with Roran and Garrow. He missed the days when he was Eragon Garrowson. When he was an ignorant little village boy. He swept out of his tent.

Saphira was already at the border of the camp, and he strode to meet her. Arya met him half way. She sent him a thin smile, and he returned it. They were going to lose men today, and neither of them could do anything about it. He took her hand, and squeezed it tightly. She did the same, eyes ahead. "Let's storm the castle."

Arya smiled sharply, "and make history."

* * *

><p>The wall fell like butter under Saphira's wrath. Belatona was cracked open like a can of worms on a fishing trip. The elves swept in like birds of prey, cutting down and sweeping onto the Empire soldiers like a plague of crows. It was almost terrifying how easy it was to slaughter their way to the castle. The arrows that fell on them skittered away like frightened rats, and each attempt to stop them was thwarted with unnatural ease.<p>

Until the horseman swept from the castle.

Saphira roared, and the elves sang. The ugly magic spear fell to the ground with a light thunk, and Blodhgarm clapped a paw to Eragon's shoulder after the deed of mercilessly tearing out the horseman's throat was done. The archway fell, and Eragon was running through the hallways of Belatona like a madman.

_Roran_…

The blur ended, and his cousin was standing a few feet away, dust and dark surrounding him like a shroud. "About time you-" Eragon caught him. Just like always.

* * *

><p>Blodhgarm stood still.<p>

Yaela was at on his left, crouched on the steps of Belatona's courtyard with her eyes to the sky. Uthinare was stood beside her, eyes scanning the soldiers tugging and pushing the debris from the buildings around. Wyrden was on his left, murmuring something or other. It sounded like an old Dwarven lullaby. He almost missed it. Arya swept out of the castle, hair fluttering behind her. She sent a glance, and he guessed that's all his suspicion was based on. A single, tiny glance that was looking for something specific. Yaela looked up, and the two locked gazes. Then, as if nothing had happened, the world carried on.

Blodhgarm laughed so hard his head hurt.

* * *

><p>His giggles ran out when one of the human women's waters broke. The screams were painful to hear, made even worse since they were unnecessary. When Arya emerged from the tent to whisper at them, he made that very clear to her. She simply replied with "they would be louder if not for Katrina."<p>

From what he knew, this Katrina was the wife of Roran, Eragon's cousin. It seemed, he decided, their tolerance was a family gift. He nodded, and simply watched instead. Eragon and the other men were tense, a lot more than pre-battle jitters, too. From the pitch of the screams, Blodhgarm sensed that she was close to the brink. Humans were delicate. How she had managed to hold on so long without passing out was a mysterious endeavour. He was mildly surprised, but once again was forced to re-evaluate his knowledge of humans. It seemed they fought hard for the things they loved, and that gave them enough strength to withstand a lot of abuse.

There was one last, horrible scream.

He felt his fur prickle. And the wails that followed it, they made his chest hurt. He never thought such creatures could feel so… sad. They sounded as if the war was already lost, that they were standing on the edge of oblivion with nothing at their backs but death and ruin. But when one of the humans filed out, baby in arms, Eragon swept forwards, and words were exchanged. The group followed the rider, and Blodhgarm recognised the outside of the Rider's tent easily enough.

The hours were long, and eventually, dawn broke across the Varden camp.

Eragon re-appeared, and strode across the gap between himself and the baby's father. The huge blacksmith looked like a small child, the way his face lit up. Eragon smiled back, and Arya came to settle beside Blodhgarm. "I bet you never expected that of him, Princess."

Arya smiled, "I try to expect nothing of him. If I expect one thing, he will do the complete opposite. And when I expect the opposite, he will do the other. Even when you cover all possibilities, he always surprises."

"And to think, he's just a baby. In their eyes just as much as ours."

"And yet," Yaela murmured, "he can perform such enchantments."

Wyrden nodded, "looks like fate has finally smiled upon Alagaesia."

* * *

><p>Leaving Belatona was the best thing they had ever done.<p>

Maybe not, but it still felt good to leave the city in their wake. Blodhgarm watched, as usual. They had camped a good ways from the lake, but the sheet of silvery water still shone and glittered in the dark. Dras Leona was still a good few miles away, and they were making slow progress due to the Varden army. The men were slow, as well as the supply wagons that followed them.

It was almost painful, if you had nothing to distract you.

Blodhgarm spent his days between stalking his favourite human to watching Arya. He sometimes wondered about his responsibility as a guard, but he pushed the thoughts away. Guards always had a good laugh about their wards, and their ward's interests, too. Life was tough and short. You had to grab happiness while you could. And watching a couple with that much sexual tension turn out to both be closet cases was hilarious.

He patted himself on the back for outing them.

He took his opportunity when Eragon left the campfire and his cousin to wander back towards his tent. He was silent in his hunt, and when the boy wandered too close to the shadows, Blodhgarm pounced. It was easy. Like plucking a bumbling kitten from a chair.

An arm lashed out and caught the boy's wrist, and when Eragon tried to hit back, Blodhgarm yanked him forwards. The boy fell face-first against his chest, and the elf made sure to grab his other hand. With an easy twist he had pulled them both backwards into the dark swells behind the tents, and with theatrics that he hadn't intended, they did a strange twirl and dance before Eragon tripped and they landed in a heap on a weathered old tent that had been discarded.

Eragon tried to yell, but then Blodhgarm's chuckles and muffled laughs were heard, and he rolled over to star up at the elf. "Good evening, _Drotningu_." The boy smiled up at him, eyes bright. They didn't waste any other time on words, and despite himself, Blodhgarm got a little lost amongst the remains of the old tent. But it wasn't in heat, or in passion. Eragon's arms snaked chastely around his waist, and tugged him into a tight hug. The simple sweetness of the act had the elf in a bit of a daze, but it passed and he managed to reciprocate the action somewhat. He propped either elbow on either side of the boy's head, leaving more than enough space to lean his head down and bury his face in Eragon's hair.

* * *

><p>Arya giggled at the spectacle.<p>

She turned her back on Eragon and Blodhgarm, simply investigating the muffled shriek that the boy let out when the wolf grabbed him. She didn't have a problem with it; she guessed she was just having a big-sister moment. A small part of her was jealous, she would admit it. She always supposed that a princess was meant to fall in love with the hero, have children and rule a world filled with rainbows and butterflies.

She had long since learnt that this was no fairytale, and she was no regular princess.

The Yawe on her shoulder testified to that.

* * *

><p>Watching was what she did. She would act like a shield, throw herself between the Rider and his enemies, and throw down her life in exchange for a chance at salvation. They weren't living like they should. Du Weldenvarden was beautiful, and she loved it with all her heart. But the elves had been hiding in the trees for centuries, and it was time that they walked the world like they used to. Ilirea was theirs rightfully. Funnily, fate had decided that a human would take it back from the human that stole it from them.<p>

That's some sick divine humour right there.

But it wasn't her job to laugh about the circumstances, nor was it her job to think all that much. Her job was to keep Eragon-Finariel alive. He was their last chance, their only chance in realisation. She smiled, and stood from her seat on an old log. Their last chance was a little farm boy from Palancar Valley. Fate seemed to smile on him a lot, Yaela noticed. Even Arya svit-kona seemed taken with him.

Yaela stormed away from the log.

That was irrelevant. She shouldn't be worried about that. Find it irritating. She wasn't sent here to whine about the Princess' supposed attraction to the Rider. Maybe it was a sisterly love. Arya herself said that after Faolin it would be strange to be with another man. Maybe even sacrilegious. The princess had smiled at that, and said how much of an old maid she sounded like. How old fashioned. Traditional. Yaela smiled at the memory.

It was a selfish smile.

Life was short, and tough, and unfair. You had to grasp happiness where you could. Yaela felt her ears prickle, and she stopped stock still to listen. The air around the tiny campfire was thick with tension, the princess and the rider sat opposite each other, eyes glaring into the fire.

"The man I loved died years ago, Eragon. I've already had my epic romance. You would be nothing more than a replacement."

She glanced at him, and noticed the stark lines across his cheeks. "Would you rather I had lied to you? Told you that you are special? That I'll never love like this again?"

Eragon shook his head, "That would be mightily presumptuous."

"I care for you. But not like that. You are-"

"Just a child."

"No. You-"

"Not Faolin."

"No. You're Eragon, and I car-"

"Not him."

"Don't. Just don't."

"Why not?"

"Would you rather I fall in love with you, then as we grow old you grow grey while I just gather dust? Would you rather pass away as an old cripple while I look not a day older? Would you rather me be forced to watch you wilt and die while I had to endure on!"

Eragon glared at her. "You think I would be that selfish?"

"You're a human. And a child. So yes. I do."

"And you wonder why I like Blodhgarm better."

Eragon stood, and walked away. Before he got too far, she called to him.

"He's just a big a fool as you are."

"Do I detect a little jealousy?"

"I envy him nothing, except his keen ability to make you believe every word that leaves his mouth."

"What do you mean?"

"He is an old elf, Eragon. What would a seventeen year old boy have that the millions of other bed-mates didn't?"

Eragon was silent. Arya winced. From the shadows, Yaela did too.

"I'm sorry Eragon, I just want you to see. To look for yourself!"

"And see what? Arya? See like you? That there is just one happiness in the world? When it's gone there's nothing else? I can't be like that. There must be more than just one fleeting moment and that's the end."

"But what if there isn't?"

"Then maybe this is my big romance. Maybe this is it."

"What? Bed buddies?"

Eragon glared at her, "no. we haven't slept together like that yet."

"Yet. Then it will be the same old story and an awkward celebration party when we win."

"Cynicism is ugly on you princess. Maybe you should just be happy someone likes me the way you cannot."

Eragon walked away. Arya slumped back onto the log.


	5. Chapter 5

Eragon threw the bags down, and with a gentle roll cracked his back. They would hit Dras Leona in the morning. In a way, he was happy. In another, he was dreading it. He grimaced at himself. He was acting like a child, apprehensive about meeting the Princess he had an argument with days ago. Still.

They hadn't talked since.

Just as worryingly, he hadn't seen Blodhgarm either. Even though Eragon knew that having something stable would be both a noose and a blessing, he felt rather down about the elf keeping his distance. Arya's words where playing over and over in his head, how that the elf was looking for a bed warmer rather than anything special. He threw himself across his bed. He was being spoilt by the way people treated him now. Everyone wanted something from him, everyone depended on him. Everyone except the elf. He had grown accustomed to people needing him. Worshipping him. Blodhgarm didn't. The elf was completely fine with keeping distance. It didn't bother him to not see Eragon for days. It would take Nasuada three hours after dismissing Eragon for her to call on him again.

Blodhgarm kept his feet on the ground.

He growled and rolled over so his knees hung off the cot, arms stretched out above his head. What did he have to offer anyway? Another year to live, at best. A heroes death. Go out in a blaze of glory; a pulpy mess on the King's floor. He snorted. As if he would be granted such a blessing. He would be kept like a pet to do the King's dirty business. Twisted like Murtagh. Something in his gut ached. _Murtagh_ would know what to do. The older boy was the reason Eragon got to the Varden at all. And looked what happened there.

Murtagh was imprisoned. Then kidnapped. And now a slave.

Great work, _O Rider_.

Then something warm pressed against his leg. He opened his eyes to watch Blodhgarm crawl closer, eyes golden little fireflies in the dark. He would have said something, but the elf slumped against his chest and squished the air from his lungs. The arms slid around his waist, slightly cold from the night air. Eragon would have protested, should have shoved him off, acted like a girl and asked where the hell he had been. Except, the elf buried his face in Eragon's neck and let out a long _purr_.

He actually _purred_.

It was a deep, rasping sound, rattling from his belly all the way up through his chest and out of his throat. If he had a tail, then Eragon could have sworn it would have curled around them, like a real cat's would when they were going to fall asleep. It was all he could do to simply stroke Blodhgarm's fur, his hair, scratch him behind the ears. The elf laughed, a light sound, and propped himself up on his elbows.

"I missed you, little rabbit."

Eragon snorted, "little rabbit?"

"What? Would you rather bunny?"

"More like Tiger."

"That's terrible."

"You think of something better then. No variations on rabbit."

"Sparkle-bug."

"No."

"But you're my little fairy!"

"_How? How_?"

"You're short, mouthy and have funny ears. Perfect match."

"If I'm the fairy then you're gonna be called kitten."

"I'm fine with that."

The elf smiled, wide and fanged.

"Where have you been?"

"I just managed to get past the dragon guarding your keep, Drottingu."

"Huh?"

Blodhgarm laughed, but when a shadow passed over the tent, he stopped, dead. He stopped breathing, ears flickering, and muscles like marble. Stock still. Then the shadow passed, and the elf let out a tiny breath. His eyes flickered to the Rider, and he smirked. "Arya's been keeping me away. We had another argument about you and your wellbeing."

When Eragon shoved him off and went to get up, Blodhgarm was already stopping him. An arm hooked through his, and when a strong hand pushed hard against his shoulder, he found himself face-first into the rough blanket that covered his bed.

"She's being motherly."

"She's being a dictator."

Eragon twisted his arm sharply, wrenching his wrist from Blodhgarm's grip and somehow managing to bundle the critter to the dusty floor. He managed to pin the cat-man, but only for an instant. The elf bucked, and Eragon flew.

"She's being responsible."

"She's being ridiculous."

Blodhgarm straddled Eragon's hips and one of his arms, allowing him to cover a loud mouth with a blue paw, the other capturing the boy's other flailing hand. Eragon grew silent, eyes rather venomous in his skull. Blodhgarm stared down at him, face stern.

"She's being realistic."

Eragon lost all his rigidity. Blodhgarm removed his hand.

"Then get out."

"If I die tomorrow. Then what will you have?"

"Eleven other spell casters."

Blodhgarm glared at him, "No. idiot."

The boy snorted, "If you say a broken heart, I'll smack you."

"I know I would, if it was the other way around."

"What?"

"For an irritable, danger-prone fairy-princess, you have some good attributes."

"What? My glittery wings?"

"No."

"My inherent good looks?"

"Nope."

"My ass?"

"Yes. And your incredible sense of humour."

"What? Aren't elves funny?"

"Its not just elves, Eragon."

The boy's eyebrows rose. Not in a cute way. More like in an 'are you seriously going to spew this mush at me' way. Blodhgarm didn't expect it any other way. A man's pride was effectively one of the most important things in the world. Well. One of. The cat wrinkled its nose.

"You're different."

"From?"

"Everyone."

"Like a snowflake."

"Don't be an ass. I find it hard to talk about mushy shit. Especially with princesses."

"You wouldn't be a very good subject then."

"What?"

Eragon stared up at him, "princesses are all mush."

"Arya is stone."

"A rare, pretty stone."

"But cold-"

"Unless you soften her up."

Blodhgarm looked down at him, head cocked like a curious animal. Eragon rarely ever forgot that this blue demon was actually an elf under all that bestial musk and shining fur. He looked like a cat, or a small dog, whose owner was dangling a sock in front of them. Eragon guessed it was because they had swapped sides so completely. "Defending her now?"

"I don't hate her. I just hate her orders."

"She's a princess."

"What if I already had a king?"

Blodhgarm actually laughed. The cat had long since let Eragon's arms go, and had just resorted to resting his paws on his own thighs. The rider's fingers were entwined with his own, balanced on each kneecap, and he was somehow half sitting up with his back pressed against the cot.

"Then kneel, before your king."

Eragon's grin pressed into Blodhgarm's neck.

"I never thought you to be one for treason, Eragon."

Doe in headlights is a much too weak of a term. Arya was in the doorway of his tent, hands on her hips, face like ice. Blodhgarm didn't move, just kept his face trained towards her, claws digging into the backs of Eragon's hands. When the night breeze rolled into the tent, bringing with it Arya's pinewood scent, it also brought what Eragon likened to the smell of rage. Sweat, and heat.

Arya only sweated when she was angry. Enraged.

He felt his hide burn with irritation.

"Blodhgarm. I need to talk to Arya. Please excuse us."

* * *

><p>The elf sat like a navy sentry on the grassy hill, watching the battling duo dance between battle cries and lengthy talks about formations and reading enemies. They weren't hitting Dras Leona today. Thorn and Murtagh were draped across the ugly Cathedral. But Saphira was beside him on the patchy grass, eyes bored, snout leaking a steady stream of smoke, and tail kneading the ground into a dust.<p>

They were like watching David and Goliath.

No matter how angry they made each other, however, Arya was always committed to Eragon's learning. She smiled, and he faltered. Blodhgarm almost hissed. Saphira blinked a huge eye, and made a grating coughing sound that he guessed was laughter. When she asked why he had picked blue instead of green for his fur, he looked away. She teased him throughout, asking why he hadn't turned brown, _that's the colour that blue and green makes, right?_

_Yes, Brightscales. _

He bit the sentence out, long ears twitching irately. Arya smiled again, and Eragon practically tripped over his boots. Saphira's tail collided with Blodhgarm's back, and for a moment he wondered if she was going to push him down the hill. Instead, she rubbed his back gently before she withdrew from him to nap.

When Glaedr's voice practically thundered out across the multiple minds, they stopped dead. Saphira sat up, straight as a nail. He almost felt the surprise, the happiness of Eragon as Arya defended him against Glaedr's judgement. He watched, silent, as they talked and talked, only zoning back in when Glaedr addressed him.

_Arya… Blodhgarm… Yaela… Why haven't you carried on training him in this area?_

Blodhgarm pushed down his irritation, _Ebrithil. We have tried to teach him what we can, but we are not riders. We can not presume to train him while one of his masters is still alive and present. Even if that master is neglecting his duty._

He thought he could hear the crickets chirp in the fields.

_You have overstepped your bounds, elf. My actions are not yours to question. You have no idea what I have lost. If not for Eragon and Saphira I would already have succumbed to madness. So do not accuse me of negligence, Blodhgarm, Son if Ildrid, unless you wish to test yourself against the last of the Old Ones. _

There was a brutal hiss, and he almost felt Eragon shiver.

_Then do not blame us for you failing to live up to you responsibilities, Old one. Our whole race mourns your loss, but we cannot wait for you to finish this little pity party of yours while the rest of the world faces destruction. We are in a war against a traitor who slaughtered your kin as well as your Rider. I'd have thought you would postpone your pity party until after he's dead in the ground._

When the Varden men littering the field started falling, clutching their faces in pain, Blodhgarm guessed he might have crossed a line.

Saphira, bless her heart, saved his hide.

_Master, I have been worried about you. It is good to know you are well and strong again. The skies are clear, the day is bright, it would be a joy to fly higher than the eagles. After being trapped in your heart of hearts for so long, you must want to leave all this behind, right? So let us let go. Just for a little while._

_That might be… pleasant._

Blodhgarm had zoned out again, eyes wandering back to watching Eragon, flinch, smile, and frown. Scratch his wrist, rub an eye. And then he was getting back into a fighting stance, helm low over his brow, legs wide and strong. Then he was on his knees, and Arya was dancing away from him. It happened at least seven times, before he won. It would have made Blodhgarm grin, except Eragon murmured lowly, mouth quirking into a pleased smirk.

"I can see you."

* * *

><p>Torturing Nasuada's guards was wondrous.<p>

They almost shivered in fear when Blodhgarm settled into his place in the rough semi-circle around the leader's tent. It even got bad enough for Yaela to frown at him. The lovely, light hearted elf's face was marred by the stare, and he stopped. But it didn't abate his irritation. It built through the day as he stalked the two of them, and especially when they went back to Eragon's tent.

He was being a child, but he didn't care.

In his head, he knew that it would go down like this. Eragon was completely smitten with the girl. It was just, he conceded, that he thought he meant more. The bitter smirk didn't leave his face until Arya left the tent. Near enough at the crack of dawn, Blodhgarm decided to move.

The warmth flooded against his back, pinning him in his crouching position. The arms folded around his neck, and a face buried itself in his mane. He didn't bother saying anything to the phantom around his neck, didn't even flinch away when Eragon leant in to kiss him. Nothing. Blank.

"Nothing happened."

"You're right."

"Between me and her, not between me and you."

Blodhgarm smiled. Bitter.

"Those lessons with Oromis oiled your tongue well, Shadeslayer."


	6. Chapter 6

Blodhgarm was almost a ghost during the days proceeding. He was rarely sighted, like an endangered species of wild bear. He would be spotted for an instant, and then he was gone. He spent his days sat on the same tuft of grass behind a string of tents, and every day the tiny girl brought him some kind of present. Today was an apple.

She smiled gummily at him before she tottered back to her mother, hidden in amongst the human encampment. She was sweet, and kept some of his darker thoughts at bay. They always returned, though, no matter how much goodwill the little one brought him.

Arya was everything he wasn't.

He frowned, the bitter movement startling the birds nestled atop his head. She was a princess, an heir to the throne, an emissary for the elven race. She was beautiful. She was everything that the hero was meant to marry. The hero was not meant to marry the help. Blodhgarm wandered around in a loincloth that barely covered his modesty. She walked in rags, in dresses, in armour, in robes. She looked elegant in everything, but he didn't. Put him in a crown and a dress and he would look ridiculous.

Put her in a loincloth and she would melt the hearts of lethrblaka.

He was accomplished, and he was a good warrior. But he wasn't anything like what Eragon would want long term. Not really. The boy was hormonal. He wanted everything. Blodhgarm was simply an outlet. Arya was right.

The elf smirked.

She just got it the wrong way around.

Who knew that after all the centuries he would have found the spark again. If someone told him he would, Blodhgarm would have laughed in their faces. The spark was long dead.

_But it isn't. _

The spark filled his chest every time he thought about that stupid boy. It was around then that the bitter frown turned into an equally bitter smile. He was a kitten. Soft, fluffy. Letting feelings get in the way. His job was to protect Eragon, the Shadeslayer. He was irrelevant. His wants and needs; they were inconsequential. His thoughts; they were luxuries, not necessities. Nobody needed to know a sword could think. They just needed to know it can cut.

* * *

><p>Jeod found a way.<p>

In a sense, it was refreshing. It wasn't a perfect elf scholar with a library bigger than the Spine. It wasn't a knight, and it wasn't one of King Orrin's ridiculous advisors. It was humble old Jeod, a man whose heart belongs to his books. Blodhgarm simply stared at the rickety old fool, the genius who found their ticket into Dras Leona. When the ecstatic old man's eyes fell to him, Blodhgarm smiled.

The man practically caved inwards with happiness.

Even his _wife _was happy.

When Nasuada turned to him, though, he knew the shit was going to go down.

"You will be a part of the team infiltrating the cathedral through this tunnel."

Blodhgarm didn't look to Eragon, stood in the corner by Jeod's map. He didn't even twitch, or anything visible at all. The ache in his chest was easily stamped out. Yaela pressed the plan to his mind, and the gratefulness he felt engulfed him. "In risk of sounding pompous, I am the best at manipulating flesh in our group of spell weavers. The others elected me to pretend to be the Shadeslayer. We could have made one out of nothing, but it is much easier and energy effective to simply paste the image onto something already there. It would be better to send one of the others to accompany them."

He felt the ice roll off the boy.

Nasuada brushed it aside, "true. Then who do you wish to send with them?"

"Wyrden."

The darker woman smiled, "good."

The herbalist smiled, and with a crack of her staff, they left the tent to prepare.

Blodhgarm didn't bother to look to the rider before he swept away.

* * *

><p>The elf tightened his grip on Saphira's saddle, eyes trained on Murtagh and Thorn. She pushed images at him, of Eragon battling away with heretics in the depths of that black cathedral. He felt her rage bubble against his consciousness, and when she began her attack on the huge building, trying to down it, he followed suit. He pushed against the foundations, against the wooden beams and against the bolts holding it together.<p>

For an instant, through Saphira, he felt Eragon's mind go out.

Not even just waver, as if he fell unconscious. It felt almost as if… he shook the thought away. The ache in his chest from losing Wyrden was too much. It would have been him. If he wasn't so selfish and didn't want to be near Eragon, then it would have been him.

But he wouldn't have died in the spikes.

Saphira mentally slapped him. Then one more powerful surge. He watched as she tore the Cathedral apart and expertly avoided the snow white pillar of smoke that erupted upwards as it fell.

The rest was a blur.

He just had to hold on as Saphira landed, loped across a rooftop and leapt back into the air, before she rolled easily over Thorn barrelling towards her, he ducks under Murtagh's sword, she roars louder, and suddenly they are falling towards the gates. The soldiers underneath them are running higgledy piggledy, like ants in an overturned nest.

And stood in the centre was the Shadeslayer, the Herbalist and the Princess.

* * *

><p>In the end, Thorn and Murtagh were driven away. He screamed down some nonsense about the city being worthless, to undermine the Varden. <em>We let you have this.<em> The elf smiled up at him and gave a little wave. Eragon copied. Blodhgarm thought he saw the other rider glow red before they slunk away. Saphira landed, and Blodhgarm slid off her back.

"Shadeslayer," he bowed to the boy, as well as Arya. "Saphira told me about Wyrden. I-"

He couldn't finish. The other elves in their little congregation surged from the debris, the houses, and the men. Their questions were lengthy, and Blodhgarm saw all the tiredness, and the look of defeat cross the boy's features.

That was before he had to tell the Queen about it, too.

* * *

><p>The creek was quiet, and bubbly. As the elves traipsed towards it, Wyrden silent and cold atop their shields, they cried. They were as silent as he was; their hair and clothes much darker, lanker than usual. Eragon and Saphira walked behind them, as did Nasuada and Orik.<p>

To bury him, they didn't use magic like Eragon guessed. They placed him carefully on the ground with their shields under him, knelt by some nondescript patch of grass by the river, and dug their fingers into the dirt. And they dug. And they sang. And the world stopped, just for a few moments.

When they finally moved enough dirt, they lowered him in slowly, as if they were putting a small child to sleep. Gentle, caring. Then they covered him, and Yaela placed a small acorn in the mud above his heart. Then they all sang to that tiny acorn, and it grew. Only when they were staring at a hearty old oak did they stop. And then, one by one, they left.

Eventually, Blodhgarm was left staring at the back of Eragon's head.

"It could have been you."

"Or you."

Eragon turned, and looked at him. Simply looked. "All because of a selfish little girl."

Blodhgarm sighed, "What's done is done. Personally I would rather hunt every last one of those wretched priests, burn their scriptures and decimate their altars and eat their flesh from their living bones. Then I would go to the Farseer to point out her part in Wyrden's death. If she was there, it would have been different. But she wasn't. So now we just have to live with the consequences."

Eragon frowned.

"But I am running away with myself. Isn't there a princess waiting for you, Shadeslayer? Shouldn't you be off?"

Eragon smiled, grimly. "That's what you think, is it? You think that I'm using you while I wait for Arya. Right?"

"It's not what I think," Blodhgarm smiled back; "It's what I _know_."

Eragon's face darkened, like a thunderstorm on the horizon. "Then for _all those years_ **holed** up in your woods reading **poetry**, _history_ and generally _**wasting**_ your time figuring out how to grow a extra few **lumps** of fur," he hissed. He balled a fist in Blodhgarm's pelt, where there was the most fur around the base of his skull. **"You know nothing."**

The kiss wasn't chaste, or sweet. There were no tongues involved, just a desperate press of human and elven mouth. It was hard, domineering, like the boy was trying to push his point onto Blodhgarm, make him see his way was right. That the elf was being ridiculous in pairing the boy with Arya, that the boy wanted him. Blue lumps of fur and all.

The fist loosened, in turn flattening to rub against the base of Blodhgarm's skull, fingers coiling into his hair as the other hand slid around his back. Tugging them to be chest to chest, Eragon finally let go. Blodhgarm didn't respond. Eragon stopped pushing, and the lingering feel of the boy pressed up against him disappeared. Blodhgarm couldn't speak, and moving was out of the question. Even to the point where Eragon looked as if someone had forced him to eat sick and went to let go of his grip around Blodhgarm's waist.

If it wasn't for that desolate, heartbroken glaze that covered him, the elf would have believed Eragon's outburst to be a farce. But the boy looked completely lost in his own world. One where Blodhgarm had remained unresponsive and cold.

The elf broke the bubble like an elephant dive-bombing into a lake.

Eragon gasped, and the surprise as Blodhgarm's arms slid around his waist and hauled him into the air and laughed and they were falling and rolling. The grass was sweet, and the cat-man was so warm, the boy almost felt like a kid again, playing with one of Horst's dogs on the farm. But Blodhgarm wasn't a dog. He was a towering elven mage, currently straddling his hips and tickling him into submission. He was pushing past every one of Eragon's defences, and a pink mouth was against his cheek, and he was whispering. It was something in elvish, and Eragon was shaky on the uptake, but the feeling was all there. The relief. The happiness.

And for a dumb-ass moment, Eragon kind of wished that there was no king, no empire, and nothing much beyond their little patch of grass.

* * *

><p>Yaela looked almost dead.<p>

Her hair had been bled of its usual vibrancy; instead it was pale, lank, and thin. It hung at her waist, over her face, sticking in the wet around her eyes. She wasn't moving. Just sat on one of the hills that rolled up between the tents, blankly staring at the grass under her sprawled legs.

When the other elf sat at her side, she barely noticed.

Even the pale hand that clasped her own, there was an odd numb to her fingers. Almost as if she had sat in an ice bucket, and then touched. The hand didn't let go, even when the sun set and the stars flooded the sky.

"Wryden is dead."

"He is at peace."

"I will miss him."

"It's not goodbye forever, Yaela."

The elf looked up at the princess, and one squeezed the other's hand.

When Thorn and the soldiers raided the camp in the middle of the night, Arya felt her insides burn. She practically bolted from Eragon's tent, gave him some edge comment about getting the Dauthdaert before running into the night. She was at Yaela's tent before Thorn even let the first torrent of flame bathe the camp.

The pale elf leapt from her tent, hair fluttering, robes twisted.

And then she drew her sword from the scabbard in her hand. The soldiers fell, and the blood laced the crisp white of her nightgown. Arya lopped off the head of a soldier at her back. The two turned on each other, and for a moment, they were still. Then Yaela nodded, and Arya loped into the tent. When she left with the Dauthdaert, the other elf was already gone.

The rest was a haze, and when she woke up from hitting the dirt, she gently tested her body. Flexed a few muscles, wiggling fingers and toes, feeling alot like a half squished worm. Thorn's tail had given her a few fractures, here and there. Nothing she couldn't handle.

When Eragon came, she played pretend. Everything is fine. No injuries. It's all good. The afterglow of the Empire's attack melted into the dawn, and as Arya trudged back to Yaela's tent, watching the hazy faces of the Varden men as they passed each other, she spotted the blonde in amongst the crowd. The glow of the spear was ugly against her skin, making the sickly mourning pallor stark on Yaela's features.

The two simply stared at each other. There was nothing to say.

Arya blinked. Yaela nodded.

The two disappeared into the dark of that tent, and as the warmth settled at her back, Yaela finally slept for the first time in days.


	7. Chapter 7

They returned at nightfall.

The rider had been gone for at least a fortnight, and Blodhgarm had felt the loss. He even missed Saphira's teasing. In that time, he watched Arya and Yaela. Just out of boredom, really. It was sweet that they could find something amongst the ashes. Arya caught his eye once, and they shared a moment of understanding. Then he felt the push.

His eyes glazed, and he went on autopilot.

Not even Arya saw the change.

_Eragon. _

_Well it definitely isn't Guntera._

* * *

><p>He needed a better job. The rope was a bit tight, but for some demented reason, this was a good idea. The other elves in their party were similarly tied to the end of a long rope. The ends were attached to a thick log, and even as he watched the air thrum under the beating Saphira was giving it, he knew Eragon was laughing like a madman. Because even though the others looked like fairies caught by children, he looked like a kitten tangled in a ball of yarn. The tips of his furry ears twitched. He almost thought he heard a tinkle-laugh.<p>

It was his turn to laugh when the invisibility failed.

They sailed over the wall, and the soldiers underneath them screamed in fear. Blodhgarm pushed down the irrational want to cut the rope. Fall among them; raise their city to the ground. Build it again, in the name of freedom. He guessed it was the feline pelt, but he wanted to let go. Tear those bumbling fools apart. They stood between the Rider and the King. But he had more important things to do. He looked up, and as Saphira set them down in a gigantic courtyard, he settled into his role.

The supporter.

The Eldunari thrummed amongst them, and for a wild instant, he thought they could win. Murtagh was at their backs, tripping over his own feet. They surged through the front gates, and got past the door. That was farther than he thought they'd get. Much further. He thought they would be struck down at the hillock outside. He thought back to Galbatorix. The elf grinned. He was letting them in. Sick fuck.

The tiny witch-child threw up a hand, and a game of Simon-says exploded henceforth. They tiptoed and pranced their way around the traps left for them, and the door to the King wasn't getting any closer. Then the mages popped out, and he felt his insides rile. Fight time. Then Eragon's hand slapped the ground, and it was like watching Liotha cut vegetables. The mages fell apart like lettuces, their leaves falling to the ground in a crumbled heap; distressed and juices leaking. Blodhgarm had the courtesy to make a sad face.

Fools that licked the king's boots. He went to step forwards and test some of the trap's boundaries, but Eragon's hand stopped him. The safe approach. Right. It looked almost hopeless, and he was about to offer trying to crawl under the lower set of blades, when Arya pointed out that to stop the blades they needed to jam them open with something magical. His heart sighed.

It said, _you could always just crawl under them._

He frowned, licked his fangs, and held out his sword.

The others followed suit. He felt something akin to broiling rage when Arya hesitated. Princess or not, he wasn't going to let her keep that sword. His was a present from the Queen after that fiasco with the forsworn, and he would bet his last gold coin that hers was some sort of butter knife from a thrift sale. Eragon seemed to catch his train of thought, because there was a sceptical, almost scolding stare.

_Are you really going to do this now?_

The cat shrugged. Grinned. Eragon's head twitched in reply.

They were all nervous.

When he ignored them and began the spells, Blodhgarm watched. He felt Murtagh running around somewhere, and sometimes he spotted the other brother scurrying around in the background. He looked similar to Eragon, but not much. He guessed they had similar hair. But he liked Eragon's better. He sighed; he almost hoped that they looked similar. Murtagh could act like a stunt double when Eragon went away. Then again, he smiled lightly, as if he would let the rider go far if they survived this.

_Move._

They were like a really funny slug. Shitting its pants, pushing as hard and as fast as possible and still going at the speed of gunge. When the witch-child screamed faster, they barely kicked it up a notch. The instinct kicked in, and he wanted to tackle Eragon the last few feet. Save him. Fuck the rest. Fuck the king. Fuck it all. Then the feeling was gone, and they were past the blades.

Yaela shrieked.

He turned, blindly thrashed out with magic, and she was suddenly thrown past him. Eragon helped her up. He could almost feel the tension vibrating off Arya. If he put a rock against her stomach, it would be turned to crumbs in moments. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were shaking. But then the composure was back, and the ice-façade was in place. She couldn't stop a quick grasp of the other elf's hand, though.

Blodhgarm knew he couldn't have been that calm, if it was the other way around.

He looked to the rider, just as they all had started to, and the boy was staring up at the golden-filigreed doors like a mouse staring up at a dollhouse. Curiosity, fear, and even a little apprehension glazed his face like the icing on a particularly nice cake. If only he had spent a little more time-

"What do we do, knock?"

* * *

><p>Eragon turned around, and he watched as the billows of light caught each of his spell casters in separate tubes of magic. They were frozen, as were the completely stunned Arya and Eragon. They were all like statues, staring at whatever they had been looking at before. Caught in the middle of scratching a leg, playing with a strand of hair, nibbling a lip.<p>

Eragon looked to Blodhgarm.

Blodhgarm was staring straight back at him.

Then they were gone, and Arya was pounding at the wall that they had disappeared through like wraiths in the night. She gave up, and the screaming was almost unbearable. Hearing the woman who fell to her knees at the realisation of Umaroth, and the Eldunari scream at them to open the 'fucking god-forsaken wall' was almost completely unbelievable. Then he figured, Yaela is gone, too.

* * *

><p>Blodhgarm seethed.<p>

There was no other way to put it.

Because hidden behind that stone wall he was staring at was Eragon and the others. He could hear them as could his other spell casters. At their backs was the rambling, foolish mages and other such cretins under Galbatorix, every once in a while an elf growling out an expletive as an inquisitive staff poked and prodded them. The mages had chained each of them to the ceiling with ugly black manacles; the metal seemed to be enchanted, because for once, Blodhgarm couldn't touch any of the others. Not even Uthinare or Yaela, hanging on either side of him.

They had all tried to cast spells, and gotten a nasty surprise for their trouble.

But he didn't care for the fact that he was hung up like a side of meat. Murtagh and Eragon were still fighting, and he could almost feel the angst radiating from the throne room. Yaela was still twitching and kicking, and even the magicians couldn't stop her. They gave up, eventually, and returned to the ominous orb that sat at the centre of their table. Blodhgarm looked over his shoulder again, watching the little people in the torso-sized-sphere dance around and yell at each other.

Then Uthinare started it.

He pulled himself up, and swung to the left.

The stupid mages in the room with them didn't hear the collision, nor the grunt as Blodhgarm's fangs sank into the collar of Uthinare's tunic. They didn't hear the chains twisting around feet, nor the monumental creak as the chains weakened at the base. The creaking and the eventual snap was hidden by the sounds of the fighting, the elves timing their tugs to the beat the clanging swords. The chain keeping Uthinare's feet secure to the ground snapped in the middle, and Blodhgarm could practically feel the relief surge through their group. The anticipation as Uthinare nimbly tugged himself up towards the ceiling, and the thick metal plate that held him hanging up. He twisted himself upside down, planting his feet against the stone above him, hands wrapped tightly in the chain, and he pulled.

It was painful, the wait for Uthinare to break his bindings.

Any moment, and one of Galbatorix's minions would turn around. Somehow, the king didn't know about their attempts, or he didn't care. Blodhgarm hoped he didn't care. The chain snapped.

Uthinare landed like a cat, and Blodhgarm silently applauded. With a gentle movement, Uthinare pointed at one of the many small tables at the back of the room, near that awful wall hiding the Rider from view. They could hear the yelling now, and the cat-man could practically feel the need to escape, to help, to do _something_. Uthinare stuffed a hand down the back of his neck, deep into his tunic. He wasn't pointing at the table. He was getting his sleeve in a less painful twist around his elbow.

When he tugged the sword from his tunic, Blodhgarm felt the surprise. The other elves bristled, but it didn't last. Uthinare swung Tinkledeath twice, and three elves fell, and their chains came apart. He freed the others, and by the time he turned around, Yaela and Blodhgarm had finished the mages. The cat-man's mouth was about to open, but the floor creaked. The ancient stone creaked. The ceiling shuddered, and the walls practically vibrated themselves apart.

"Time to go."


	8. Chapter 8

Fun Fact: I got asked to make this story super slash, and I tried. And then I just couldn't do it. All I could see is Eragon crying like a bitch in dwarvish, and then the whole seriousness of it just kinda died xD

* * *

><p>The first hour was the worst.<p>

Uthinare was screaming, and the other elves were scurrying around moving rubble. The soldiers that weren't dying or broken were falling over themselves in an attempt to help, keeping a wide berth from the screeching Yaela and the humming energies that surrounded her, Arya at her side. The Eldunari were pushing from beneath the castle, pushing up into the light. Blodhgarm absently wondered how many times before had they done this. Bury themselves in the sand, or are buried, and spend what seems like an eternity trying to exhume themselves. In reality, he guessed they were abnormalities, ones that nature shouldn't allow to happen. If it had done its job properly, then Galbatorix would have never existed, not to the extent he had. He would have died fighting Vrael.

He got his power because of some old fools love of knowledge; their sentimentality. That need to keep something already gone. Eragon was dead. Blodhgarm could feel it. It was one of the main reasons why when he felt the last block of stone falter and collapse with its brothers onto of hundreds of others, he didn't bother jumping free. He could feel that light go out. He was here, now. Stood outside a place that his forefathers talked about in awe, in woe, in regret. They made powerful speeches when they first lost Ileria, ones full of blood and tears. But none of the elves had taken a single stone from the city. Blodhgarm wasn't going to keep Eragon's shirts. He was going to burn everything. Wipe the slate clean.

He wasn't a dragon like Umaroth. The crazy old lizard was still clawing at the scraps of his Rider's memory, still fighting the whole world for that one man, still holding on. He planted the seeds, and he managed to pull together a bunch of crazy old rocks to bring down the king. And for what?

Blodhgarm snarled at the soldier that bumped into him, and the man yelped and scuttled away. The elf couldn't feel his feet. He guessed that didn't matter now. Even Glaedr found it in himself to pull his shit together and find revenge. But who was there left to fight? Who's iron blades and who's towering white walls was Blodhgarm going to throw himself against to get this empty feeling to leave him? Even Brom had found it in his weak old bones to fight. He had died fighting to keep Eragon alive. To keep their dream alive. But now?

It was all a waste.

What was the point in saving anything, if the one that made it all happen had to disappear? A kid throwing his life away for what? A bunch of people too weak to save themselves, too scared to stand up and be counted. Arya was screaming at him, but he couldn't listen. He wasn't hearing her. It was all buzz, buzz, buzz-

The men started running to her, swarming her like she was a bear with her paw in their honeycombs. They thundered about, and the screams became yells, and the urgent shouts became tears, laughs, howls of joy. And then the first one was dragged out of the wreckage. She was dusky, painted pale with the brick dust, torn rags masking her where fineries used to adorn her. Nasuada gave them a tight smile, her leader-face. Whatever had happened to her, she wasn't the same sunny, bright young woman. She didn't even have that terrifying steel. He felt that spark test the edges of his ribs again. Every step that took him to Arya made the spark grow, expand, fry his senses. He wasn't aware of when he had pushed the men and elves out of the way, when he stopped to stare at that pale, bloodied face that gaped up out of the dark. The pale, bruised arms that reached up. He didn't even realise when he had started shaking. He couldn't pinpoint the moment when the lump in his arms started laughing. He could only shake and grip tighter, hold on harder to that lump of crazy that stunk like blood and Eragon.

* * *

><p>The feasting and drinking started almost straight after Nasuada was pronounced Queen. Well, for Nasuada anyway. In reality, most had started celebrating when the word got out that the king was dead. The coronation was simple, and Blodhgarm guessed it was for the best. The people of the newfound Ilirea seemed to have had enough of the eloquence and superfluous shows of dominion. Somehow, he had managed to get himself, Yaela and Uthinare into the coronation and out of that damnable tower. The silver haired woman had smiled when he appeared at her door, already well aware of what he was going to ask. "It isn't like you to miss a party, after all."<p>

So, like petulant teenagers, they snuck out.

Well. Mostly. He had kicked up a stink about having to hand over leadership of their group over to one of the others while they were gone, as well as wear one of the tracking amulets just in case. The thing backed up as a scrying amulet, and on the other side was a mirror that someone could look into and see him. A stray thought tinkled off to what would happen if the elves called when he was otherwise 'indisposed.' He brushed Yaela's questioning away when he burst into a laughing fit.

They were just about to breach that wall of flocking, dancing humans when he felt the tug. His shirt caught on a railing, and for the life of him, he almost went into a mad rage and tore the thing off. A pale hand stopped the clawed paw and another pale appendage unhooked him from the staircase. He looked to Arya, and in an instant, he knew what had gone down in Du Weldenvarden. He smiled, and curtly bowed his head. "My Queen."

She smiled at him, clapped a hand to his shoulder, and lithely followed Yaela down to the circle of dancing humans. He followed, but much slower. Absently, while looking for a certain brunette, he looked at the people that had gathered. Orik was taking the several tables ladled with mead by storm en masse with his dwarven entourage, Saphira at his flank, a bright green dragon at her side. They tried to keep to the corner kept bare for them, and thanked the dwarves who rolled a few barrels their way.

The elven ambassador, Vanir, was having a long overdue catching with Uthinare, as well as sharing a few quiet words with Arya. Congratulations, he guessed. His shirt itched. He frowned and tugged at the offending garment, taking time to glare past the white elven fabric at his black breeches and even more insufferable leather boots. Yaela said he was to make an impression, and she said this in such a motherly manner that Blodhgarm almost believed that her trying to brush his fur through wasn't meant as torture.

He shivered at the memory, and dodged a pair of incredibly drunk guardsmen. Bunkering down in a small alcove between a set of marble pillars, Blodhgarm waited. The courtyard was huge, and he guessed he had simply not run into Eragon yet. The erisdar overhead painted him a hearty blue, and as a bumbling steward flailed past him, he guessed he was happy. Mostly. Then he spotted what he had been looking for. A brunette head bobbed through the crowd, and then all of a sudden, Eragon's face was staring at him through the throng of dancing bodies.

The musicians were holed up near the throne, and as Nasuada herself just sat and watched with Jormundur at her side, Blodhgarm made his move. He sloped out from the alcove, leaving the blue erisdar behind him, and instead content to just let the moonlight bathe him. He watched as Eragon mirrored him, the rider gently passing through the crowd, speeding up as he got closer, and closer. Blodhgarm ducked under the swan dive of a rather excited elf, the dark haired woman landing gracefully in the arms of her similarly dark haired partner. He pushed harder, and after what seemed like an eternity, he pushed past one last dwarf, and as he looked back up, he practically head butted Eragon in the face.

Well, the Rider had practically pasted himself against Blodhgarm, and for that instant, Eragon had successfully blanked the fact that they were surrounded by people from the elf's head. Someone let out an inhuman growl and Blodhgarm saw a flicker of his reflection in Eragon's eyes, and how his pupils had dilated to pinpricks. That was before Eragon's own eyes practically turned black, and only the steady bump of the dancers against them stopped the initial urge to tear at each other.

Blodhgarm touched the boy's face, a gentle movement that his clawed man-paws shouldn't have been capable of. But he was an elf at heart, regardless of the skin he adorned himself with. This 'Shadeslayer.' He was a country bumpkin, fresh out of the farmlands of some backwater human village. But he had grown into this. A man, who walked with dragons, through armies of soldiers like he was born to fight, destined to kill the king. Any other time, if it was any other year, Blodhgarm would have laughed. It was so right. A lowly creature such as a human would save them all? It would have been more funny if it was a pig or a goat, but predictable if it was an elf. Boring.

The boy gasped as a claw scored his throat.

Humans were fun. They were volatile, like magic. You never knew when they would explode or when they would melt. They were alien life forms to Alagaesia. They just appeared one day, by Blodhgarm's reckoning. He didn't bother with human history much. A padded blue thumb brushed a cheekbone. Maybe he would read up on it. Eragon seemed to catch what Blodhgarm was thinking, because he tilted his head and muttered, "Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

Blodhgarm actually laughed.

But then an arm coiled around his waist, and Roran threw an arm around Eragon's neck, and suddenly there were a lot of people between them.

Eragon disappeared, and Blodhgarm did what he usually did when with Uthinare.

Blodhgarm strutted. He drank. He had fun. The girls followed him wherever he went. Eyes practically making love to him, mouths agape, eyes glazed, red faced. And why wouldn't they bask in his glory? He sauntered past a few human guards, and their faces were a mix between indifference, awe and even one of the men were as smitten as the women. Gawking at an elf older than their great great grandparents parents.

Ohhhhh _Yeah_.

Something in his guts twitched. He wasn't having fun. He frowned, and as Uthinare distracted two of the more bothersome Varden women, Blodhgarm escaped into the dark. Blankly, he looked to Arya, arm slung around Yaela's neck in a friendly way. The blonde just was laughing into her ale, totally buttoned. Arya downed the last of the Faelnirv and tightened her grip around Yaela's shoulders. Yaela had one arm tucked around Arya's waist, the other grasping another bottle of the elven wine. The Varden were around them, swirling and singing and dancing, the other elves mingling between them, swapping stories, singing and more singing. Arya rubbed the bottle against her head. This was mightily inappropriate, but hell. They had won. They deserved some celebrations.

Yaela pressed her nose against Arya's throat, mumbled something, and Arya turned to giggle against the elf's forehead. Somehow, mouths met. The singing was forgotten, only the searing press of Yaela's mouth, the warm hand that clasped a hip, Yaela's bottle hitting her in the back. When they pulled away, they almost died in a giggle fit.

He looked to the side, and in a rare shudder, felt that strange predatory shift in his chest. He slid forwards and left, into the darker parts of the alcove, hackles standing at attention. Slinking closer, he almost wondered how Eragon had survived so long being so oblivious.

The boy didn't stand a chance.

Something collided heavily against his back, followed with two long arms dragging him backwards into the dark between the pillars. Nobody noticed the gargled yelp, and nobody noticed how the curtains looked oddly frumpy. The arms tugged him backwards through what seemed to be a window frame in Ilirea's elf towers, and in a dazed moment, he realised that he was stood in one of the private guest rooms in Nasuada's new abode. He would have said it was the Faelnirv that made the next unfathomable night happen, but if he was honest, then Eragon would have to hold his hands up to being stone cold sober.

The tight bands of elven linen disappeared from his waist, and he would have missed their presence. Instead, there was an almost lupine growl and he found himself practically thrown across the room, Blodhgarm the driving force. Hands, claws, teeth, hair, all pressed close, pushing, scratching, _growling_. The elf smelt of the elvish wine, and in a fleeting moment Eragon wondered if this was what Orik called a one night stand. That was, until the clawed paws scraped light red lines down his back to his ass, lifting him up by his thighs to make their faces level and promptly pressed his searing pink mouth against Eragon's own.

Then, thinking got a little complicated.

Absently, Eragon would note how many mystery objects were thrown to the floor as Blodhgarm threw him across one of the dressers, completely oblivious to the sad doilies and lace finery underneath them. That was, until there was a mumbled, fervent sentence in the ancient language and a languid grind against his centre. At which, Eragon stopped any cognitive processes more complicated than _unnngggghh_.

Blodhgarm himself was already at that point, completely lost in the smell, the feel of the body underneath him. Everything he did to try and get closer though was met by resistance, however; the dastardly breeches and monstrous fine shirt that the boy was wearing. Even the boots were double buckled. He wined, and almost would have felt bad at practically tearing Eragon's shirt in half. He hugged the boy around the waist and lifted him, at which the rider squeaked and flung both legs around Blodhgarm's waist and both arms around his neck. Almost a foot from the bed, Blodhgarm stopped and stretched back to look at Eragon.

"Is this what you want, _Drottningu_?"

Blodhgarm stared intently at him, all the fervour pushed back behind the mask, all the heat, just left with the serious, patient stare that seemed to define him almost as much as his jubilance. Eragon stared back, and for once, he actually got a choice. The last few years were dedicated to destroying Galbatorix, and regardless of his own personal desires, he would have been expected to hunt and kill the king. His vendetta only helped things along. Similarly, others had forced him into loyalties, into fights and into alliances. But Blodhgarm was asking.

Blodhgarm's head nearly flew off his shoulders from the force of Eragon flooding in to kiss him. A calloused hand massaged gently behind one of his long ears, the other pushed under his collar to spread down his spine, and in one, fabulous line wiped away all of the elf's crazy fears.

"_Eka threyja…_ _Konungr_…"

As eloquent as a dog in a bag being swung around by a diseased urgal, but it did the job. Blodhgarm practically threw them across the queen-size bed, Eragon felt them become airborne, and in the next moments, all he knew was that he was incredibly, impossibly happy.

Blodhgarm felt Eragon push against him, and he pushed back. The chest was bare now, and the pale human skin was a stark contrast to his own blue belly. The hands were driving through his hair in an instant, and the mouth pressing against his was already searing. His clawed paws latched around a pair of narrow hips, padded thumbs pressing into the delicious tips of the V framing Eragon's belly button. Something a bit lower was pressing against the elf's thigh, and instinctually he ground his leg up, forcing a noiseless gasp from the Shadeslayer.

Then Eragon copied, and even styled it out, receiving a low groan for his efforts. Eragon slung both his legs up and around; hooking both feet around Blodhgarm's back, leaning back into the pillows and with an experimental grind, made the fur on the elf's back stand on end. Before Blodhgarm could focus, Eragon was already suckling on his Adam's apple, hands teasing his belly, his hips, his-

There was a low snarl, and all of a sudden Eragon noticed the sudden burst of flame. His breeches came away with a hiss, and before he knew it there was a pleasant-

_Oh_.

Blodhgarm grinned into the arching boy's throat, sinking the wolven fangs into the lightly salted flesh. Then he did what he was good at. Over stimulation. There was a lot of broken, garbled dwarvish that followed, as well as a few curses in another few vague languages before it broke into simple screams. He didn't really pay attention to when Eragon had begun to pull his hair, use it to push him towards the parts of him he wanted nibbled, started yelling 'right there' and 'oh Guntera do that again!' as well as some other priceless nonsense. He did note however, how that every single reaction made his stomach tighten. He had barely stopped a moment before Eragon noticed where his attention had gone to, and in a terrifyingly wonderful moment of complete and utter idiocy, he drove himself down.

And that's were Blodhgarm lost the plot.

* * *

><p>The fog was heavy, but he wasn't scared. It was incredibly warm, but he just pushed harder against that warmth, sighing as heat filed past his fur and met his skin. It took him a few moments to realise that the heat was shaking, jolting and he was awake. He sat up, and almost wished he never got up.<p>

Eragon was next to him, looking absolutely endearing with his hair completely fucked, face a wonderful cherry, and his horrified-

What?

He followed the boys gaze, and couldn't hold it in. He laughed, enough that he hunched over into breathless gasps, clutching his chest. Eragon shrieked at him, dragging the covers closer to himself. Blodhgarm almost fell off the bed.

Nasuada stared listlessly at them from the doorway, her flustered maids at her back.

"Just put your pants on and get the hell out of my room."


	9. Chapter 9

Fun Fact: Did you know that in Alagaesia they have a stumpy little cactus called Talos? I found that kinda funny, after all the Nordic upheaval in Skyrim. :)

* * *

><p>The second they docked, he practically jumped out of the boat. Yaela's tinkling laugh followed him as he swam the last few feet to the beach and shook himself of water like a dog. He hefted his little bag on his shoulder and ran like a small child would run in a game. He practically sprinted through the dwarven city, not bothering to say hello. He even breezed past his other elves, who knew his plans when they saw his bag. They laughed and clapped him; all of them had a vice. Uthinare liked to make flutes out of saplings. Yaela liked to read suggestive caricatures. Saphira had beer. Eragon had his carvings. Arya had her assortment of tropical and exotic teas. This was his.<p>

Blodhgarm liked the dwarves hospitality he decided. He always wondered why Arya wanted to be the ambassador so badly. It wasn't for Saphira's egg, and it wasn't to help her people. She talked the talk, and managed to scoop herself one of the greatest luxuries in the known world. It was a wondrous beauty that the dwarves had every right to be proud of. She wanted to be ambassador for their best and most glorious creations yet.

Their baths.

The elf had barged through many a clan chief to the wash rooms when he heard that this city had the special spring-rooms, carrying his loafer and various tonics in his arms. When Eragon's clan-brother asked him what he was doing, he simply said, "an incredibly sacred cleaning regimen. Only call me if a Shade pops up." He didn't waste another word on the dwarf, and left the room as a hail of laughter rippled it.

He practically broke out into a sprint as he neared his destination, full on leaping over the grumpy old statues that tried to oppose him in the hallways. They swore at him in dwarvish, but he didn't give a shit. Politeness is for guys without split hairs. Manners are saved for after his soak in the tub. He rarely ever got to have time to himself after he left the forest, and most of the time he had to wash himself in a river with an army watching him scrub his ass. He was going to take this opportunity, even if everyone thought him a bastard for it.

He practically kicked the wooden door off its hinges, threw his tonics aside, and almost tore himself in half when he ripped off his loincloth. The room was as beautiful as he hoped. It was empty, about the size of a shaman's hut, and carved from the rock surrounding him. It was full to the brim with hot spring water, with a gentle slope to a waist height depth. It even had a little shelf where he could put his cleaning potions. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He was free in an instant, and let himself do what he always did when alone and with a big surface of water. He jumped in headfirst.

He collided with something hard.

He grabbed onto what he could. Something was kicking him. He stood quickly, spluttering, and shaking his mane away from his eyes, ready to kill whoever dared to interrupt his time alone.

"I know I'm a looker, but Guntera can't I have a bath alone without your smutty bullshit, _pömnuria_ _Konungr_!"

Blodhgarm replied evenly, by wiping his wet mane across Eragon's back, earning a yelp and a swatting fist in repayment. "One night and you think you're a God. Getting a little big for your boots, aren't we, _Drottningu_?" Eragon flushed deeper, deeper than he had already been from the steaming bath. Blodhgarm mentally patted himself on the back, but physically, he was already cornering Eragon between the shelf and the deepest part of the bath.

He thanked Guntera, and whatever other Gods that might be listening that he had kept his fur short in the recent weeks. Hairy bathwater isn't sexy. At all.

Eragon was soon left with nowhere to run, and he knew it. He pressed his back against the smooth stone, and stared back at the predator tailing him. "Well. Who has who pinned against a bathroom wall? I'd say that if I was shit at it, you wouldn't be here."

"Even if you started making nidhwal noises and smelt like a cabbage, I'd still be here, _Eragon_."

The boy twitched at the sound of his name, and Blodhgarm knew exactly why. Always pet names. Never his actual given name. Always Princess. Fairy. Shadeslayer. Argetlam. Never _Eragon_. The elf decided he liked saying it. Liked getting that response. Nobody could say it like he could. Blodhgarm pressed up a little closer, watching. He crept in closer, until the kid had nowhere to slip off to, completely penned in by Blodhgarm's hands, braced on the shelves. "_Eragon_."

The boy actually shuddered like a wolf to get rid of the extra adrenaline, teeth gritted when not savaging his own mouth. His eyes suddenly became blown, and for a crazy second, Blodhgarm thought he was going to get hit for being 'embarrassing.' But the sudden hand at his throat didn't strangle him; it was fisted around the hasty braid he had turned his mane into, shaking just as much as the boy was. The boy was overheating. Breathing like a rabbit after a run through the dog kennels, eyes already darkened to old woodland pines. Just from a name.

"_Eragon_."

Someone growled, and much of the bathroom paraphernalia and protocol was forgotten in what the neighbouring dwarves liked to call a "cataclysm."

What remained afterwards, when the duo left the bathrooms, is what the dwarves call a "huge fucking mess."

* * *

><p>The sea churned quietly around the ship, and being honest, Blodhgarm liked it better that way. He tugged his hood lower, trying to block out the rest of the gut-wrenching oceanic noises and being only partially successful. It was going to be a long trip. A really long trip. Woodland critters are not made for sea voyages, and the boy didn't even know where this magical problem-solved island was. Yaela yawned behind him, breaking the new tirade of insults from his head. He would laugh later. He would gripe and moan, but when it came down to it he would rather send someone else to go with the Rider. But Eragon? He would go with Eragon. If it was Arya sailing away into the sunset, he would have told her where to shove the anchor.<p>

Apparently they were a packaged deal now.

He partially straightened for when Eragon boarded the boat, face pained. His mystic elven powers guessed it to be because of the howling mess on the shore. "You have a good family at your back, Eragon. You sure this is for the best?" The boy shrugged and stepped around to so stand beside Blodhgarm, still leant on his elbows against the larboard bow. He didn't say a word until he had mirrored the elf, hands dangling over the side. "I don't know. But I know that the eggs aren't safe here, and the Elunari deserve a haven that isn't in some gold plated cage. You know that if they become common knowledge we will spend our lives defending them from thieves and maniacs. At least this way, they'll all be fine and dandy."

"So, we are going to make a retirement home for dead dragons?"

"Pretty much."

"As long as I don't get nappy duty, its fine."

"No, you'll just have to settle yourself with making a few homes, a nursery, other such things. Some of the dragon eggs are rogue born. That means that out of their stasis, they'll randomly hatch and start wandering around. They'll need a baby house."

"Once again, as long as I'm not on nappy duty, its fine."

"Blodhgarm, I have to know, is all of this just orders?"

The elf didn't say a word, for the longest time instead settling further into his hood, eyes locked onto the slowly twisting waves. Invidia yelled out an order, and the other elves twittered around on deck to their various positions. They were already out into open water before Blodhgarm replied, lowly, almost drowned by everything else.

"Of course not."

"Weohnata ono sitia? Medh eka? Eka dunei ono, Blodhgarm."

"Eka Weohnata. Eka eddyr ikonoka weohnata ono. Eka dunei ono, _**Eragon**_."

The boy smiled, wide, wonderful, bright and turned away to look out over the encroaching ocean. They were almost out into the real deeps, the river's mouth widening ahead of them into that impossible distance. Eragon was gone for a moment, fully enchanted by that glowing red line in the distance, the colour slowly bleeding through the rapidly lightening skyline. "Nuanen."

The elf looked to the boy, considering the sentiment. It was a lovely view, true. A kid who started off as a backwater village boy with little more than a pick and a wooden shack to call his. A kid who had no idea what a gold piece looked like and thought that a beor was a pig of some sort. Who was thrown ass over teakettle into a world of war and blood and politics, expected to learn high level spellcasting, swordsmanship and kill a monarch to save the world. It was scary to think anyone could have done the things that Eragon had, but seeing the boy, well. You wouldn't believe it.

He turned slightly, to look quizzically at the uncharacteristically silent elf, who simply blinked back. The boy was sweet, and ridiculously silly at times. Not even a bunch of zombie dragons could change that. He was still a village hick at heart. He was _Little one, get out of the Faelnirv or you'll end up in the swamps alone and naked again._ The second those nobles, kings, queens and regents were gone; he wasn't Argetlam, Shadeslayer, Ebrithil, Edoc'sil Shu'tugal. He was Eragon, in his jimjams with a pile of wood getting ready to make some more badger sculptures. He was Eragon, Wolf Tamer and Tea Maker. He was the cocoa haired, moss-eyed devil, pranking and torturing his poor spellcasters with the most ridiculous of contraptions. He was the pale, Drottningu that appeared only when they were alone. He was the monster that taunted the living hell out of he elf when then were with company. He was the little bastard who woke up the spark in his chest. He loved Eragon.

The boy leant in, placing a tiny kiss on the edge of his lips, those moss-green eyes twinkling with something previously unknown.

Blodhgarm hummed in assent.

"Nuanen."

* * *

><p>Pömnuria Konungr – My King<p>

Weohnata ono sitia? Medh eka? Eka dunei ono, Blodhgarm. - Will you stay? With me? I love you, Blodhgarm.

Eka Weohnata. Eka eddyr ikonoka weohnata ono. Eka dunei ono. - I will, I am whole with you. I love you.

Eka Weohnata – I will.

Nuanen – Beautiful

* * *

><p>And there you go. The End. I might do a few little oneshots in the Yarn storyline or maybe even some suff about their live on the Island, but who knows. But being honest, i always found it funny when everyone got all crazy over the real Inheritance ending. The books were never meant to be epic romance. They were a coming of age story. Or maybe Arya knows that Eragon is actually a closet case? Hmmm.<p>

Ah Well. Hope You enjoyed it! And Thanks For Reading :o]


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